


Broken Bones and Broken Bonds

by twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Car Accidents, Cults, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Scott straight up does not exist, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, also he's dead, just fucking wholesale forgot about him, not Melissa tho she's here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24373936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/pseuds/twothumbsandnostakeincanon
Summary: Stiles kind of wished that he’d at least tried weed before this.Or something, you know? Maybe taken up a graffiti hobby, or even just skateboarded in front of City Hall often enough to get a citation.He wished he’d done something to be deserving of the looks people gave him now, rather than just being the recipient of his dead father’s unused power.
Relationships: Isaac Lahey & Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 282
Kudos: 919





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not super thrilled with this tbh, but I don't know if my attitude about my writing is because of the Everything™ happening, or because it's genuinely bad writing. 
> 
> ♪~ Let's Find Out!! ~♪ ᕕ(ᐛ)ᕗ

Stiles kind of wished that he’d at least tried weed before this. 

Or _something_ , you know? Maybe taken up a graffiti hobby, or even just skateboarded in front of City Hall often enough to get a citation. 

He wished he’d _done_ something to be deserving of the looks people gave him now, rather than just being the recipient of his dead father’s unused power. 

Unfortunately, social attitudes were more dependent on media representation than actual statistics. And _god_ , were there an unfortunate amount of teen alphas on TV. 

Every version of CSI had at least three episodes where the Teen Alpha (played by a thirty year old) turned out to have gotten their power through murder. Or, their power came from an alpha who drank themselves to death, something the teen inevitably also did in turn. Once Stiles saw an episode that just straight up had a teen alpha character say, “I love killing people more than I love my pack.” 

When the show went into syndication, that episode re-aired a lot. Good ratings, apparently. 

The point was, Stiles hadn’t done anything wild when he had the chance, and he didn’t even have ignorance as an excuse, because he’d known it was coming. Of course he’d known it was coming. 

After all, they were a pack of two. 

The alpha power had to go somewhere.

It wasn’t like when his mom had died, when the power could be taken on by someone who already held the responsibility. That had been unusual in its own right anyway. 

This time? This time there was only one place for it to go. 

And it was going to go, Stiles was sure of that. He watched his father drink, watched him take unnecessary risks on patrol, watched him stop trying-

He watched his alpha shy away from and dismiss his power, to the point that he wouldn’t even reach for it to save his own life. When his car hit the tree, he just let go. 

He let go, and Stiles was the only one left to catch it. 

* * *

“We’d like you to know that there are resources for people in your... situation,” the school counselor said in a tone that did nothing to hide her pity. Stiles forced a tight smile. 

“Yeah, I met with the judge last week and he gave me a list of stuff. I just need my altered schedule from you.” 

The counselor pinched her lips. 

“You know… no one would blame you if you dropped out. An alpha has a heavy load of responsibility-“

Stiles wanted to groan. Of course no one would blame him if he dropped out. That’s what they were expecting, what they were hoping for. 

If he dropped out, then he would fit neatly into the pipeline made for kids like him: Teenage Alpha to High School Dropout to Petty Criminal to Lifetime Inmate. 

After all, what better way for people to justify their feelings on teenage alphas than to make sure they wound up where people thought teenage alphas belonged?

“My schedule, please,” Stiles said firmly, voice sharp. The pity fell from her face, quickly replaced with disapproval. 

“Your alpha status is not permission to lose your temper, Mr. Stilinski,” she snipped out before turning to her screen to finally print the schedule. 

_My alpha status is also not permission for you to dismiss my future,_ Stiles thought dryly to himself. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he could leave the campus as soon as he had his schedule.

“I apologize,” Stiles said calmly, purposefully crossing his arms with blunt, completely un-clawed fingertips on full display. “Losing my dad has been difficult,” he said, voice flat and eyes piercing the counselor as she jolted slightly with the reminder of his father’s public death.

It had only been three weeks, but public attention was funny like that. Tragedy only held the community’s gaze as long as there wasn’t a scandal to look at instead. 

She cleared her throat and whipped the paper from the printer tray. 

“Yes, well. Just make sure you maintain your control.” She finally handed over the paper. Stiles smiled, teeth perhaps just a hint sharper than her own human ones.

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. Thank you for your time.” 

The counselor stood and nodded him out of the room. Stiles barely noticed in his haste to leave. 

Once safely shut inside his Jeep, he took a deep breath. His own scent permeated the interior, with just a hint of Isaac’s soap lingering in the air from his ride to school that morning, since Isaac’s car hadn’t started. Stiles hesitated when he looked at the clock. Class would be out in an hour. Isaac had planned on finding a ride after school, but Stiles could wait… 

He shook his head at himself. Isaac didn’t need to be crowded. Stiles was his alpha now, not his nanny. 

Instead, he started the car and turned toward the house. 

He’d known that the alpha power was coming to him. For years, he’d known. However, he hadn’t counted on Isaac being part of it. 

Isaac was just some kid on the lacrosse team- an asshole kid most of the time, but the kind of asshole that didn’t bother Stiles. 

However, a week before John died, Isaac’s dad had killed himself. Self inflicted gunshot wound.

After locking Isaac inside a freezer. 

John was the one who found him- Stiles still wasn’t sure exactly what had happened there. Some kind of trauma response, probably. Mr. Lahey had locked Isaac inside and then killed himself, leaving Isaac trapped when he felt the pack bond die. Isaac had probably automatically reached out to the first Alpha that came into contact with him, who happened to be John.

It’s not like Stiles knew the actual circumstances. His dad had told him precisely jack shit about it. Stiles hadn’t even known about Isaac until John crashed his car during a high speed chase.

The slight weight of the inherited bond was a bigger shock than his father’s death. Stiles sought Isaac out as soon as he could to let him know that he didn’t expect to have any hold over Isaac; that Isaac was free to go to whatever pack he chose. 

Isaac, however, had just shrugged and said, "Whatever. You can’t be worse than my dad."

Stiles couldn’t disagree with that. 

As soon as he walked into the living room, he sighed. Boxes sat in his way, some in the process of being emptied and some in the process of being filled. Isaac hadn’t had much to bring over to the house, but going through it and putting it away was mentally exhausting for him, and he only managed about half a box a day. 

Stiles understood. It’s not like it was any easier for him to pack up his father’s possessions. 

Still, he put his new school schedule up on the corkboard in the kitchen and forced himself to grab a fresh empty box and head to his dad’s bedroom. Slowly, methodically, he folded up the clothes and packed them away neatly for donation. 

One shirt. 

One pair of slacks. 

One shirt. 

One pair of slacks. 

The repetitive motions lulled him into trancelike state. The contrasting memory of his father packing away his mother’s clothing crept up on him slowly, easing past Stiles’ usual mental avoidance.

John had been drunk, despite the exponential danger to wolves due to the necessary wolfsbane additive. 

He’d always been drunk then. 

Always desolate, always red eyed, always a little out of control. 

Her things had been ripped from the hangers, yanked from the shelves, and tossed violently into the boxes, as if doing it as fast as possible would somehow make it easier. 

Eventually, John had tossed a figurine from the dresser a little too hard, and it broke inside the box, getting shards of porcelain all over everything. 

Stiles watched from the doorway as John realized he would either have to go through and pick out all the pieces, handling everything again, or throw the whole box in the trash. 

Stiles watched from the doorway as his alpha red eyes grew even brighter, and continued to watch as his father picked up the box and threw it back into the closet harder than Stiles had ever seen him throw anything. 

He did not watch his father break down sobbing in the middle of the bedroom. 

Instead, he looked to the wall beside the door, where a collection of family pictures sat. 

His father’s alpha red used to be so much warmer, before his mother’s ember-red was added to them. 

Stiles sat back on his heels in the same room, six years distant from the memory. He rubbed his closed eyes, calming himself until he was sure his own would show nothing but brown. 

They always wanted to burn, now. As if the ember of his mother’s power and the warmth of his father’s had combined into an inferno, constantly raging for something to consume. 

He looked back in the closet. The same box from his memory still sat at the bottom, dusty and unremarkable. The idea of even touching it was nauseating.

Stiles checked his phone. School would be out in ten minutes. 

Fuck it. He’d go pick up Isaac and go get fries or something.

* * *

Stiles felt the flare of anger through his single pack bond as he sat at a red light a block away from the high school. He furrowed his brow. Isaac usually kept his emotions pretty tightly locked down. 

As soon as he pulled into the parking lot and saw a circled crowd, yelling and pointing their phones at the middle, he groaned. 

He hastily parked and threw himself through the bodies, letting out a low alpha growl to get people to instinctively move out of his way. 

Isaac was in the middle, grappling with some kid Stiles knew by sight but not by name. A senior beta who spent so much time in the weightlifting room that he permanently smelled like sweaty vinyl. 

Stiles didn’t understand wolves who signed up for weightlifting. Normal weightlifting couldn’t improve wolf strength- the only reason to be in the class was for the ego boost that came from being better than everyone without having to try. Even if they’d done nothing to earn it. And not only that, but the weightlifting room reeked overwhelmingly of sweat, plastic, and desperation too.

Speaking of desperation, that was something rolling off Isaac in waves. The senior beta had him in a dangerous looking hold, sneering down at him as Isaac furiously tried to break loose. 

Stiles shuddered, and fought back a sharp impulse to break the senior’s neck.

That was _his pack._

_His beta._

The need to destroy the threat was visceral and unignorable. His instincts demanded blood and violence.

The two things that everyone expected a teenage alpha to give in to. 

“Hey! Break it up, reprobates!” 

A new voice from the other side of the fight broke Stiles’ train of thought. Coach Finstock stood there with one hand on a crosse and the other on his whistle. The two in the middle continued struggling as if no one had said anything. 

“I said cut it out!” he yelled, clearly frustrated, but not stupid enough to get between two fighting wolves. Finstock blew his whistle, finally startling the senior beta into looking up- and breaking Isaac’s arm in the process. 

The sound of the crack and grind of bone made every wolf in the parking lot cringe. 

Isaac’s face went paper white but he didn’t scream. He clenched his jaw as the senior beta released him, stumbling forward a step before catching his arm and holding it close to himself. The senior beta turned to face Finstock with an expression that was more startled than angry, but it didn’t stop him from yelling. 

“He attacked me first!”

Finstock levelled an unimpressed look at him, and then glanced past his shoulder at Stiles before returning his gaze to the beta.

“If you say so. But I definitely don’t think you want to hang around long enough for who’s gonna attack last.” 

The senior beta looked confused for a moment- until he looked over his own shoulder in the same direction Finstock had.

Stiles couldn’t have said what expression was on his own face, but he knew his eyes were red. He pulled back his lips just enough to show his alpha teeth. His claws slowly unsheathed, the steady pace a clear demonstration of his control over the choice. Finstock’s gaze zeroed in on them. 

The students surrounding him quickly began to back away, some going so far as to hide behind cars. 

The senior tripped over his heel in his haste to back away as well, and ended up on his ass next to Finstock, staring at Stiles’ red eyes. 

Stiles didn’t move an inch. 

“Isaac, what’s hurt besides your arm?” he asked, voice even. 

Isaac didn’t answer. 

Stiles looked over. 

“Isaac,” he ordered, more concern leaking into his tone. “Is anything else broken?” 

Isaac shook his head. 

“My arm’s already healing,” he said faux casually, though anyone could hear the pain in his voice. “It’s fine.”

As much as it sounded like a dismissal, there was every chance that Isaac was being honest that it was already healing- a fact that made Stiles curse. 

“Shit,” he murmured to himself. He turned off his threatening posture like a light switch, focus shifted. “Come on, let’s go to the hospital,” he said, trying to usher Isaac to the Jeep and utterly ignoring the confused, scared, and judgemental looks around them. 

“But I just told you it’s healing!” Isaac protested, finally looking up at Stiles, his normal stubborn expression appearing again. 

“That’s why we need to go to the hospital; so they can set it straight before it heals crooked and we have to rebreak it entirely,” Stiles said, tone allowing no argument. He opened the door to the Jeep and took Isaac’s bag, throwing it in the back, gesturing him in. Once he was seated, Stiles shut the door behind him and finally turned back toward where Finstock and the senior beta were. He locked eyes with the weightlifting rat and let his own bleed red again. 

“Tell your alpha to expect a call about your behavior,” he said, and then walked to the driver's side. 

Isaac turned to look at him disbelievingly as he got in. 

“‘A call about your behavior’?” he quoted, voice incredulous. 

“What did you expect me to say?” Stiles said, reaching over to take his pain as they pulled out of the parking lot. “ _‘I’m gonna tell your alpha on you’_ ? I am _also_ an alpha, Isaac. Cooperative handling of conflict between packs is what alphas do.” 

Isaac looked at him critically for a moment. 

“You quoted that directly from the alpha training class the judge made you go to, didn’t you?” 

“Yep.” 

* * *

“Come on, dude,” Stiles said as they ducked around the regular E.R. admittance desk to reach nurses station. “Melissa knows what a freakishly fast healer you are, I bet she’ll take us right back if we catch her.”

“‘Freakish’ my ass,” Isaac muttered, disgruntled. 

“I want absolutely nothing to do with anything freakish and your ass,” Stiles tossed back, brow pinched as he looked for Melissa. 

“You-” Isaac started to say, and then interrupted himself with a hiss when his broken arm got bumped by a passing orderly. Stiles quickly touched his elbow lightly and began drawing his renewed pain, glaring at the orderly’s back as he walked away, oblivious. 

“Stiles- Isaac!” 

Stiles and Isaac both turned around to see Melissa hurrying toward them, half exasperated and half concerned. 

“Isaac’s arm is broken and it’s already starting to heal,” Stiles explained. “Can we get him into an x-ray quickly?” 

Melissa’s hands immediately switched to professional autopilot, assessing Isaac’s arm with a critical eye even as she chastised Stiles for bypassing the admittance desk and triage. 

A few minutes later, Melissa led Isaac back to the imaging department. When they reached the door, she automatically stuck out a hand in Stiles’ direction. 

“Pack and parental guardians only, you can wait-”

Stiles interrupted her. 

“I’m- Melissa, I’m his alpha, remember?” 

He suddenly felt so tired as he watched the reminder catch up with her. Watched the cringe, and then the apology in her eyes. 

“Sorry,” she offered, using her outstretched hand to hold open the door instead. “Obviously you can come back. The doctor will meet us in the room to set the bone.” 

The x-ray showed that the bone had indeed begun to fuse offset, rather than straight. 

“Where’s your alpha?” the doctor asked Isaac after a quick but thorough examination of the image. “We’ll want them here so they can drain your pain while we reset your arm.” 

“That’s me,” Stiles answered. “How will you know it’s straight? Do you just take another x-ray?” 

The doctor looked confused. 

“Yes, we’ll take another x-ray- I said alpha, not pack member. Where is your _alpha?”_ he emphasized. 

Stiles grit his teeth for a moment, and then patiently said, _“I_ am his alpha.” 

The doctor blanched. 

“Oh. Ah, Nurse Delgado? May I speak with you for a moment?” 

Melissa sighed quietly and nodded, following the doctor into the hall. 

Stiles settled a hand on Isaac’s elbow and began draining his pain yet again. There was a kind of comfort in it for him, providing relief to his beta. He had long experience taking pain from his father’s hangovers, but doing this felt better somehow. Less complicated. 

Neither of them made any pretense about not eavesdropping on the conversation happening through the flimsy door. 

“- can’t trust him to drain the pain! He probably broke the arm in the first place! Who knows what he did to become an alpha?” the doctor was hissing out. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. If he was an abusive alpha, then shouldn’t the doctor be screening Isaac instead of gossiping about it in the hall? Why didn’t they ever intervene with the alpha he’d had before, who was _actually_ abusive? Why the fuck were people so obsessed with looking for abuse where Hollywood dramas told them it would be, rather than where the signs actually said it was? 

“Stiles is the son of Sheriff Stilinski,” Melissa said in a quiet, placating tone. “He didn’t kill anyone to be an alpha, Rick. There just wasn’t anywhere else for the responsibility to go.” 

The doctor (Rick, apparently) just huffed. 

“That doesn’t make him any less eighteen. Why the hell does he have any beta at all? He can’t possibly be taking care of him- the kid’s already in here with a broken arm.” 

“That’s not a fair judgement and you know it,” Melissa calmly pointed out. “Alphas bring injured betas in here every day. He’s showing responsibility by bringing him to get the arm set-”

“ ‘m sorry,” Isaac grit out roughly beside Stiles.

Stiles furrowed his brow. Isaac had never shown an ounce of remorse over a fight. It was one of the things Stiles liked about him. 

“Why are you sorry?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged the shoulder of his non-injured arm. “Making people think you’re a shitty alpha or whatever,” Isaac said, looking away. 

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“People are gonna think I’m a shitty alpha no matter what, Isaac. We’re both teenagers, remember? Anyone who doesn’t assume I killed my alpha for power is going to assume that I come from an unstable pack, and that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Stiles clenched his jaw for a moment after he said that, and then consciously relaxed himself. “What was the fight about anyway? I need to know before I call Do-You-Even-Lift-Bro’s alpha.”

Isaac snorted before sobering, and turning his gaze to the floor.

“He was saying shit about you. Saying what a shitty beta _I_ must be if the only alpha I could get to take me was you.” 

Stiles clenched his jaw again, vengefulness rattling in the mental compartment he’d temporarily locked it inside.

“At least I got in a solid punch before he put me in that hold,” Isaac continued with satisfaction. 

Stiles hummed, proud, but not necessarily wanting anyone to overhear him congratulating his beta on punching someone. 

Melissa and Doctor Rick eventually came back in, this time with an anesthetist wolf named Jill. 

“She’s just here to pick up anything you might miss,” Doctor Rick said, gesturing to the young, clearly nervous woman. 

“I’ve been taking his pain since it happened,” Stiles said slowly, in the vain hope that it might make the information penetrate the doctor’s cloud of bias. “It’s not a problem. I don’t need help.” 

The doctor made a vague, insincere conciliatory gesture, and said, “It’s just in case! Just in case. If both of you will please take your positions.” 

Stiles looked at Jill, who smiled nervously. She was barely older than himself. She couldn’t possibly have more than a few months experience. He sighed, and arranged himself on the side of Isaac’s unbroken arm, Jill next to him. Black veins flowed up his arms and he nodded his readiness to Doctor Rick.

Doctor Rick ignored him and looked to Jill for the okay to start. She nodded too, her own hand also on Isaac’s, but doing nothing.

The doctor made quick, practised moves. Stiles and Jill heard the bones adjusting, and watched Isaac’s face for any sign of pain. 

He scrunched his nose. 

“My face itches. Can I have my hand back?” 

Before anyone could answer, the sound of a tendon snapping into place over a joint rang out in the wolf’s ears. 

“There!” Doctor Rick said, satisfied. “We’ll x-ray again to be sure, but I think that will do it. How do you feel Mr. Lahey?”

They all looked at Isaac. 

He was unconscious. 

Doctor Rick immediately glared at Stiles, pointing accusingly at him,

“He’s fainted from the pain!” 

Stiles opened his mouth to argue, because _fuck that reactive bullshit_ , but-

“Uh, actually, I think it was me,” Jill said, voice small. “The tendon startled me, and- I think I overdid it.” 

Stiles released Isaac’s hand and rubbed his eyes. His beta wouldn’t need any pain relief for a while now. Stiles was torn between anger at Jill accidentally knocking out his pack member, and relief that at least she’d admitted to it. Otherwise Stiles would probably be minutes away from getting booked for beta abuse. 

They put Isaac in an out of the way room to wait until he woke up, Melissa leaving hushed apologies with them as she rushed to her next patient. 

Stiles waited by Isaac’s bed, but their bond was silent. He was well and truly unconscious. 

The quiet room made it harder to ignore memories of the last time he’d been alone in this hospital. 

He checked on Isaac one more time (still snoring slightly) and walked down the hall to stretch his legs. Or pace. Whatever. 

The hallway was unoccupied except for himself. Desperate for a distraction from old memories, he started picking up people’s charts and reading them, the idea of denying his own nosiness the furthest thing from his mind. 

It was the long term ward. There were two patients recovering from severe spine trauma, and another with short term memory problems. Their charts were full of notes on their treatment and progress, each day a step forward or a step backward. 

Except for the last chart. 

Peter Hale. 

The first few days after Stiles’ mother’s death were mostly a blur, but he remembered the fire. How could he not, when all but three of the Hales died due to arson. Religious zealots had been responsible. Argent’s Church of the Divine Hunt, or whatever. Not really a church, but an anti-werewolf cult. Documentary makers still occasionally rolled through town to talk about it.

The courts had decided that technically, the organization of the “church” itself wasn’t responsible, but rather the founder’s radicalized daughter. 

But everyone knew _who_ had radicalized her. 

Peter’s chart was nearly empty, except for one daily repeated note: _Patient status unchanged. Alpha contact unable to be made._

Stiles slowly placed the chart back into its slot, hesitated, and then went into the room. 

Hale lay on the bed, eyes closed. Half his body was still covered in burn scars. Anger lit through Stiles. He’d always looked sideways at the choice of Laura Hale after the fire- she and her brother went into hiding, but they left Peter here. As a beta, it had seemed cruel, but Stiles could admit that perhaps he just wasn’t privy to everything that went into the alpha’s decision. She probably knew what was best for her betas.

Now, as an alpha in his own right? He knew there was absolutely no excuse for putting so much distance between herself and Peter.

He frowned deeply as he looked at the scars again. Laura had to be twenty five by now. Surely after six years she had enough power to help heal him through their bond? Even at a distance? 

Stiles wondered how long it had been since Peter was touched by another wolf who wasn’t a nurse. He didn’t want to be creepy, but he was a wolf too. They all needed contact. Maybe that’s why Peter wasn’t healing? 

Cautiously, Stiles stepped up to Peter’s right, unburned side, and reached out to lightly touch the back of his hand, watching closely for any negative reaction from his blank face. 

Peter’s face didn’t move, but Stiles still got a reaction. 

The place in his chest where his single bond to Isaac lay, was suddenly being assaulted- as if Peter were digging claws into him, desperately burrowing into his alpha connection, seeking something, _anything._ Any kind of bond. 

Peter’s wolf was _howling_. Mournful and anguished, and so, so alone. 

Stiles immediately shot back away from Peter, locking his own defenses down and shutting him out as he shook slightly. He realized he wasn’t breathing, and he gasped in air quickly, the excessive oxygen doing nothing to help him reel his thoughts back together. 

Peter was an omega. 

Laura had not only left him behind, but _broken_ their pack bond altogether. 

Rage filled Stiles at the idea of an alpha abandoning her pack like that. No wonder Peter hadn’t healed yet; he had no place to draw power from, no help and no support. 

He almost reached out again without thinking- it was instinctive, the need to help this man. 

He suddenly had a much more thorough understanding of what must have happened between Isaac and his father. 

But Stiles stopped. 

Above all else, he had to be practical. 

He was an eighteen year old alpha with a single other eighteen year old pack member. Did he want to give some of his power and energy to a wolf who was unlikely to ever wake up and give strength back to the pack? Stiles had no tie to this wolf. No tie to his previous pack. 

Peter had ties to no one at all. 

Stiles sighed. 

He had a limited amount of money, a limited amount of time in the day, and an extremely limited amount of respect from alpha peers. 

What he didn’t have a limited amount of, was _power._

He reached out and touched the back of Peter’s hand again, this time reaching out to pull in the frenzied wolf. 

The bond sealed in a furious hurricane of demand for connection- and then went silent. 

Once sated, the bond felt almost… dead. Flat. There, but barely humming in his chest. Stiles stood there silently for a moment, waiting for any other changes, before he felt Isaac starting to wake up. 

Well. He’d done everything he could anyway. Likely more than he _should._

It would probably come to nothing, other than giving a comatose wolf some subconscious peace.

With one last run of his fingers over the back of Peter’s hand, Stiles left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the weight of my Exposition Sins. Who do I confess to for that. Is it Atwood? I feel like it might be Margaret. 
> 
> Also I've realized that parts of this fic really make it seem like I have an axe to grind against the medical field?? I don't lmao, I just needed to show cultural bias and like the first two chapters of this have a lot of hospital time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It looks like maybe the writing isn't as terrible as I feel like it is?? So I'll try to pull my shit together lmao.

Isaac fully woke up a few minutes later, arm mostly healed, but still out of it from the double whammy of pain drain. His head drooped against the passenger window as they drove back to the Stilinski house. 

“Y’know, my fast healing was always why my dad _wouldn’t_ take me to the hospital,” he mumbled toward the side view mirror. “You’re a weird alpha.”

Stiles’ gut tightened. 

“Look, I may or may not be a weird alpha, but that’s not why. Your dad was just a piece of shit, Isaac.” He paused, suddenly realizing that he should probably tell Isaac what he’d done with Peter. “Speaking of weird-”

Isaac rolled his head to look at him, brow furrowed and eyes unfocused. Stiles paused. 

“You know what, it can probably wait until you’re a little less stoned,” he conceded. 

Isaac just rolled his head back, mumbling, “ _w_ _eird.”_

They had a quiet evening, shoving all boxes to the side and out of eyesight. Isaac sobered up just in time to feel the full effects of his rapid healing, and passed out on the couch halfway through _The Simpson’s_. Stiles just covered him up with a blanket and went to bed himself. 

The weekend was strangely calm. Stiles grit his teeth and got most of his father’s room cleaned out, as well as sorting through his paperwork that probably never should have left the sheriff’s station.

Not that that stopped Stiles from reading all of it. 

Isaac also finished unpacking completely, and even brought up the idea of decorating his room. 

“I found a bunch of movie posters in my boxes,” he said with a furrowed brow. “I don’t remember... I must have gotten them to hang on my walls. Like, just before.” 

He sounded uncertain, and Stiles wasn’t really sure what to say. Isaac openly admitted that he didn’t remember most of the time around his father’s death. He barely even remembered the first time Stiles came to see him at his temporary group home. A head injury from the freezer, combined with a dead alpha and then a second dead alpha a week later- honestly, Stiles would have been shocked if he _did_ remember anything. 

“I mean, if you’re asking me if you can put tacks in the walls, then yeah I guess?” Stiles said slowly. “Housewide ban on posters with Jeremy Renner on them, though.” 

Isaac rolled his eyes and smiled, so apparently that had been the right thing to say. Stiles went back to cleaning, relieved. 

They looked at Isaac’s car Sunday morning, and after thorough googling, found that the battery probably needed to be replaced. For seventy dollars that neither of them had.

But other than that, it was a calm weekend. So calm, in fact, that Stiles didn’t remember Peter Hale until Sunday night. 

Because that was when he woke up from his coma.

Stiles gasped as the sensation shocked him. He felt the nearly silent bond in his chest suddenly spasm, coming to life with a flare. Isaac looked over from across the table where he was doing homework, startled. 

“Oh shit,” Stiles said, hand pressed to his breastbone. “Jesus, what-? Are you _kidding me?”_ he hissed to himself.

“What? What’s happening?” Isaac demanded, a frisson of fear running through their bond. Stiles scrabbled for his phone, looking up the number for the hospital as he explained. 

“I tried to tell you on Friday, but you were still pretty out of it- I, uh. I added a pack member?” He grimaced at Isaac’s disbelieving stare. “You remember the Hale fire right? Well Peter Hale is still sitting in the long term ward. I came across him-”

“-You ‘came across’ him?” Isaac asked with incredulous finger quotes. “How do you ‘come across’ someone inside their hospital room Stiles?!” 

“By snooping. Listen to me, Peter was completely packless. Laura must have broken their bond when she left. He’s still half covered in scars and in a coma- or at least he was. I think he might be awake now.” He hit call and waited for the hospital’s automated system to answer. “His wolf was desperate, man.” 

Isaac looked disquieted, and Stiles thought he must see the parallels to his own situation with John, even if Isaac could remember nothing of it. Stiles selfishly hoped it would make him more forgiving.

He pressed zero repeatedly until someone picked up. “Yes, hi, I need to speak with someone in the long term ward. Is Peter Hale awake?” 

“I’m sorry sir, our privacy policy-” 

Stiles cursed silently.

“Alright, thank you,” he said, cutting her off and ending the call as quickly as he could. He should have anticipated that answer. He stood up from the table and grabbed his keys, pointing sternly at Isaac when he stood up too. 

“No. First of all, we’re twice as likely to get caught with two of us, and second of all you have like three pages of that paper left to write. I’m not your mom, Isaac, but for fucks sake please try to graduate.” He found his wallet next and tucked it in his pocket. “I’ll let you know what’s going on as soon as I do, alright?” 

Isaac crossed his arms petulantly, but didn’t try to follow. 

Stiles parked in the southwest corner of the hospital parking lot, where he knew the cameras didn’t reach, and slipped in the service entrance. It all felt stupidly dramatic, like he was sneaking inside to murder someone, but… 

Well, he wasn’t sure _exactly_ what the response would be when everyone found out what he’d done, but he was sure it wouldn’t be good. He wanted a chance to talk to Peter first. After all, his wolf had reached out to Stiles, but Peter hadn’t been conscious for it. He hadn’t _chosen_ Stiles. If he wanted to break the bond, then Stiles would do it. He didn’t need hospital administration or, god forbid, _legal_ interference in that conversation. 

As soon as he entered the patient hallways, he could hear that the hospital was more active than usual for Sunday night. At least, from what he remembered of visiting Melissa with his mom as a kid. Voices murmured in a tone that was instantly identifiable as fresh gossip, and he could hear the sounds of a wheelchair being rolled toward the long term ward, along with the soothing tones of a doctor. 

He hid in an empty patient room to listen.

“-scans look completely normal. It’s a miracle, Mr. Hale.” 

Stiles heard no reply, but could feel contempt radiating from Peter. Apparently his beta held very little patience for a doctor who attributed healing to a god rather than actually identifying the source. 

“I know you must be tired, so we’ll just put you back to bed now and let you rest,” the human doctor continued, clearly coming to his own conclusions about Peter’s lack of response. 

Irritation came down the bond next, causing an involuntary quirk of Stiles' lips. 

Hale may be irritated, but Stiles was relieved. The less they looked into it, the less likely he was to get in trouble for it. 

Stiles listened to the doctor and a nurse settle him back into bed. Both immediately disappeared afterward; he assumed to spread more first hand gossip. 

Stiles waited a few minutes to be sure they were distracted, and then slipped into the room. Peter didn’t open his eyes. 

“I wondered when you would come,” he murmured. “And what exactly it is that you want from me.” 

Stiles cocked an eyebrow. 

“I left as soon as I felt you wake up, dude,” he answered, amused when Peter’s eyes snapped open and surprise shot through their bond at the sound of his voice. “And I don’t necessarily want anything from you, unless you choose to remain a part of my pack. In that case, I want you to be my beta. Nothing in particular other than that.” 

Peter’s eyes burned wolf-blue, surprising Stiles a little in return. He regarded him more thoroughly. 

“Left hand?” he wondered idly. 

“High school student?” Peter countered. 

Stiles just stared back placidly. 

Peter broke first. 

“Where is Laura?” 

Stiles tried to hide his cringe, but Peter apparently felt it by the way his expression darkened. He had a fleeting thought that their bond was unusually active, but focused on the question at hand.

“What do you know already?” Stiles asked, stalling a bit. 

Peter clenched his jaw for a moment before answering. 

“It’s been six years. The second in command of the Argent cult was arrested for the arson, which killed all but two other members of my pack.” 

He stopped there, face blank as pain wracked his side of the bond. 

“Laura took her brother and left six years ago, right after everything,” Stiles answered quietly. “Just up and disappeared, no forwarding address. Apparently she broke your bond too.” He waited as Peter digested that. 

“And how did you enter the equation?” Peter said slowly, using his weakened muscles to sit up as much as possible. Stiles wisely did not offer to help, but funneled a little extra power down their bond. 

“I brought my beta in for a broken arm two days ago” he answered. “Came across you, touched your hand, and nearly got eaten whole by your desperate wolf.” Stiles shrugged. “You’ve been in a coma for six years. I’m a teenage alpha. Neither of us have a lot going for us, but I do have power to spare. Honestly, I didn’t really think anything would happen. I just didn’t think you deserved to be an omega either.” 

“And do you still think that, now that you’ve seen my eyes?” Peter asked snidely, as if he thought he knew the answer already. 

Stiles shrugged again. Blue eyes as evidence of murder were another invention of TV. Criminologists and psychologists had disproved that one before Stiles was even born. It had more to do with feelings of guilt than any particular action. Blue wolf eyes could mean anything from, _I murdered sixteen people in cold blood,_ to _I once stepped on a bug and felt kinda bad about it,_ to _I have an anxiety disorder and constantly worry about my actions inadvertently hurting someone else._

“Blue eyes mean jack shit to me, dude,” Stiles said. “I only know one part of your story.”

“Don’t call me dude.”

The words seemed to leave Peter automatically, as his expression was blank surprise. Stiles could feel him tiring. 

“Anyway, take some time to think about it. I don’t think what I did was strictly legal, so if you want out, I have no problem breaking the bond so you can go find a more respectable alpha.” He moved over to the cart next to the bed and dug around for a pen and paper. “Here’s my number.” He paused. “And my name, I guess, since I haven’t told you that.” 

Peter took the paper and another surprise shot down the bond. 

“Stilinski?” He looked more closely at Stiles. “... Claudia’s son?”

Stiles nodded, cautious. 

“I know-“ Peter cut himself off with a swallow. “I knew her,” he said quietly after a moment. “Before she died.” He peered up at Stiles again. “I thought you were human?”

“I was,” Stiles said simply. Peter continued to look at him harder than Stiles thought the statement deserved; plenty of human children took the bite. 

“Did they find the feral omega that attacked her?” Peter asked next, eyes still intense. 

Stiles’ stomach froze over, the way it always did when someone spoke of his mother’s death. Her attack and the Hale fire had happened so closely that people often intertwined the details; speaking of them casually as if they had any kind of right to the tragedies, but getting enough wrong that Stiles could dismiss any attempt at questions as idiocy. 

Peter, though, apparently remembered.

Stiles nodded tightly. 

“Found his body down the ravine from where my mom was found. Never identified, though.”

Peter seemed to get lost in memories for a moment, and Stiles thought it best to leave him to work through things. After all, it had been six years for Stiles, but Peter had only been awake for about an hour. As far as he was concerned, his entire pack had been murdered yesterday. 

He raised a hand in farewell. 

“Let me know, Peter.”

Peter distractedly waved his own goodbye, and Stiles slipped out again. 

Time to call Isaac. 

* * *

Peter lay in bed, watching the light of the waning moon cross the hospital window. 

The alpha was dead. 

Long live the alpha. 

Grief had been an ever present weight in his chest since waking. His severed pack bonds felt as if they’d just barely begun to heal; likely at the same time of Stiles’ first little visit, given what he knew about Laura now. He supposed he should be grateful that it was only the bonds that burned, and not his now-healing scarred body. 

Grief left so little room for gratitude.

His pack needed vengeance. _He_ needed vengeance. He needed _power._

His alpha had power. 

Judging by the bond, Peter had expected an old, powerful, well established alpha- perhaps performing an act of charity by taking on Peter. The alpha who’d actually come was nothing short of a shock.

However, the Stilinski name went a long way toward explaining why Peter had woken up, and why their bond felt the way it did. Unfortunately it introduced far more questions than answers.

More pain, as well. 

But truly, only one question mattered right now: Where did Peter go from here? Which direction lay the retribution he desperately needed?

Given his current state, his options were to stay in the hospital, go home with Stiles, or detach himself and search for another pack while omega. Which, of course, meant he really only had one option. 

Peter had never done well with restriction. 

But then, one choice could lead to many, given the right kind of steps.

* * *

Monday morning dawned at least five hours too early for Stiles. Still, he dragged himself out of bed and banged on Isaac’s door until he heard a groan that sounded vaguely like _fuck you I’m awake_ , and went to start coffee. 

He only had to attend three classes a day. He was finishing Spanish, English, and biochemistry, after testing out of the math and history credits. 

School in the morning, work in the afternoon and evening, for four months. While Alpha-ing. Then he could graduate and focus on work and pack.

Travel mug in hand and beta in passenger seat, Stiles told himself he could do this. 

By the time first period was over, he had to acknowledge that while he wasn’t _wrong_ , per se- he _could_ do this- it also wasn’t going to be in any way, shape, or form, _pleasant._

He sighed to himself as he shouldered his backpack for his next class. It’s not like he had really thought otherwise, but… he’d hoped. Foolishly, but still. 

“Mr. Stilinski,” Mr. Harris called as students began filing out. “Come see me.” 

Harris tilted his glasses just far enough down to look at him over the rims before tilting his head back and looking down his nose. 

“You can expect to be treated like every other student in this class, Mr. Stilinski,” he said sternly. Stiles just stared at him blankly. He’d been taking this class since the beginning of the year, with the exception of the last few weeks. Harris was the only teacher who wouldn’t allow him the chance to test out. He already knew what kind of bullshit to expect. 

“I will not be giving you special allowances,” Harris continued, sneering the words, “just because you’ve given yourself privilege over another student.” 

Stiles’ mouth fell open a tiny bit. _Privilege…?_ Given _himself?!_

“You sound like a cartoon villain,” Stiles said. Blurted, really. 

Harris’ nostrils flared. 

“Detention!” he declared. 

Stiles just stared in disbelief again. 

“You can’t give me that. Literally, you cannot. The Adolescent Alpha Emancipation Act prevents you from impinging on time outside of my judge approved class schedule. Which you should already know, since it was included in my request to test out of this class. The one that you denied.”

Harris’ face turned from pink to red as Stiles talked. Stiles just shook his head, dismissive. 

“Whatever dude. I have another class to get to.” 

Harris sputtered behind him as Stiles walked out, the next class filing in around them. 

The whispers that followed him through the halls, while annoying, were easier to ignore than he’d anticipated. They were just… betas. Not his responsibility, and not anything to worry about either. He knew that could change; he had never been one to walk around with eyes closed and he wasn’t going to start now, but… their judgement just didn’t hold the weight he’d expected. 

He wasn’t sure exactly whose judgement he did care about. 

Stiles finished his next two classes and was gone before lunch. 

He started a load of laundry and made another cup of coffee after he arrived home, and sat down at the table with his laptop. He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to relieve the tension there, and then immediately gave up when he saw he only had two bids for papers. That would barely net him a hundred.

His stress wasn’t going anywhere soon. 

He rubbed a hand through his hair and sighed, and then started typing. 

When Isaac came home, Stiles looked up in surprise, glancing at the clock on his screen and startling when he realized it was already four. 

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked, taking a break to stretch.

“Everyone at the school thinks you’re going to murder Harris next,” Isaac said bluntly, going to the sink for some water. “You hear back from Sleeping Beauty yet?” 

Stiles shook his head. 

He was unsure of whether or not he actually wanted Peter in his pack. Of course he didn’t really have a choice at this point; he’d already accepted Peter’s desperate, albeit unconscious bid for a bond. It was his responsibility to remain Peter’s alpha until Peter either chose to leave or became a danger to the rest of his pack. 

“Anyway,” Isaac continued, returning to his first statement. “If you really are gonna murder Harris, can you do it before Friday?”

“Isaac, you _know_ I didn’t murder my dad, right?” Stiles asked, rubbing a hand through his hair with a slight yawn. “I’ve done zero murdering so far in my life.” 

“Of course not,” Isaac scoffed. “But like. If you’re gonna start…” he trailed off meaningfully. “Might as well do it before I have to take a test on Friday, right?”

“Jesus Christ, either go study or make dinner,” Stiles said, exasperated. 

Isaac immediately dipped from the kitchen under threat of having to cook, and Stiles got up with a stretch to throw some things into a pot for stew.

As he chopped vegetables, he thought more about Peter. 

Peter came from a well known, well established family line of wolves. He had been respected by the community before his coma- it was possible that having Peter in his pack would make people less suspicious of Stiles as an alpha. 

Or possibly it would just make people more suspicious of Peter. 

Stiles sighed. There was also the other thing.

Peter had known his mother. 

That could mean a lot of different things. 

It could mean he’d just seen her at the library reference desk where she worked. 

It could mean they were friends who met up for coffee. 

Or it might mean something else entirely.

Stiles shook his head at himself and picked up the sliced carrots to dump them in the water. He was overthinking it. Peter had probably just talked with her while checking out books or something. He set the stew to simmer and went back to research. 

Fifteen minutes after dinner, Peter called.

“Alpha Stilinski,” he said, voice so respectful that it had to be sarcastic. “I’d like to request an official place in your pack.” 

Stiles chewed his lip for a second, and then answered, “Sure dude. Let’s formalize it in person. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” 

“I eagerly await your arrival,” Peter drawled, and hung up. 

Yeah, that was sarcasm. 

“He’s actually joining our pack?” Isaac said, surprised. Stiles hummed noncommittally. 

“That’s what he says. He might just be planning to use us as a stepping stone to a more permanent pack.”

Isaac made a disgusted face at that and Stiles just shrugged. 

“It would be a dick move, absolutely, but it would also make sense for him. I don’t think he has anywhere else to go in Beacon Hills, and if he can’t leave yet… well, we’re right here.” 

_It’s what I would do,_ is what he didn’t say. _It’s what I expect you’re doing even if you don’t realize it yet._

“Come with me to the hospital this time. You can meet him.”

* * *

Stiles stood in the doorway to the hospital room, easily ignoring the glare of the nurses on his back. 

“I gotta be honest- this really isn’t what I thought you would pick.” 

Peter raised an eyebrow from where he sat in a wheelchair.

“I suppose we’ll have to get to know each other better, then.” 

Stiles fully entered the room, allowing Isaac to step in behind him. Then he stuck his head back out the door to sunnily tell the nurses, “Private chat between alpha and beta, please knock if you need something!” and then shut the door behind him. He folded his arms, face unreadable.

“Alright, let’s be clear about our expectations here. I’m still in high school, with zero respectability as far as the pack community goes, and I’m barely making enough money to cover basic needs,” Stiles said bluntly. “We’re not just a step down from your last pack, we’re not even on the same ladder. I don’t have time or money to offer you, so what do you want?” 

Peter looked at him appraisingly from the chair. 

“I don’t need time or money. My savings account and investments have been accruing interest for the last six years, and they were nothing small before that. I’m more than willing to share my means with the pack. What I need is an alpha with power- specifically, power to help me heal.” He gestured to the lessened, but still very much there scars on his left side. “I may initially need… a bit of help with more intensive physical activity,” he said with a frustrated twist of his mouth before smoothing out his expression, “but I expect that to last no more than a week, at most. Your power is nothing to dismiss, Stiles. Why wouldn’t I want to join your pack?”

He smiled at Stiles charmingly. 

Stiles was unconvinced. 

“Your pack burned,” he said, point blank. He saw Isaac cringe out of the corner of his eye, and caught the brief flash of supernatural blue in Peter’s before he got himself under control. “You expect me to believe you’re just moving past that? I’m not asking ‘what do you want for the next week while you heal?’ or ‘what do you want that the psych nurses will approve of?’ I’m asking ‘what do you want that an eighteen year old alpha will make a suitable stepping stone toward?’” 

Peter’s expression instantly became more shrewd. Stiles could feel a slight shift of something down the bond- something a little more calculating, something a little more impressed. Before he could ask himself again why the _fuck_ this bond was so much more sensitive, Peter talked. 

“I want to get out of this hospital. I want justice against those who murdered my pack, or failing that, revenge. I want-” He cut himself off and swallowed. “I want _nothing_ to do with my niece.” 

Stiles could understand that. It certainly felt like a more honest answer than the first one. But he had a feeling that Peter was the kind of man with plans within plans, and it was only the bare surface of whatever he was thinking. 

However… 

Stiles thought of his car insurance payments. Of the bill from the ambulance ride for his father’s corpse. And the way Isaac’s shoes were falling apart.

He gestured to Peter's scars. 

“Do these hurt? Are they sensitive?” 

Peter looked a bit confused by the abrupt change in topic. 

“No, not particularly.” 

Stiles nodded in acknowledgement, and then stepped up and waited for Peter to bare his throat for scent marking. 

Slowly, Peter tilted his head, keeping one eye on Stiles, who ignored it. Stiles rubbed a cheek along Peter’s and brushed the other side of his neck with a hand. Then he stepped back. 

Isaac made no move to step forward, but Stiles hadn’t expected him to. Isaac and Peter were part of _his_ pack, after all. Whether they decided to be part of each other’s pack was up to them. 

A short conversation with the nurses later, Peter was scheduled for discharge the next day at eleven. 

“Because of your injuries, we’ll need to discharge you to your alpha,” the nurse said to Peter, who looked at Stiles. 

“I get out of American Literature at ten fifty, so I might be here a few minutes after eleven, but not too late.” 

Peter just nodded, but the nurses looked at each other uneasily. Stiles smiled at them blandly, daring them to make a comment to his face. They didn’t. 

That night was a long one for Stiles. The only bedroom left for Peter to sleep in was his father’s. He absolutely didn’t have the energy to sort through the few things left in there, so he just dumped the last two full drawers into a box and shoved it into the closet next to the other box, to be dealt with later. After that he changed the sheets and put the duvet in the wash, and went back to work, finishing one paper and starting the next. 

To be honest, writing papers for fifty dollars a go wasn’t terrible money. It wasn’t _good_ money, but it wasn’t _terrible._ Not when he could knock them out in about three or four hours. It was just that the bids weren’t always consistent, and sometimes finding those three hours was impossible between homework and car repairs and keeping things clean. It hadn’t been a problem when he was just trying to get money for lacrosse equipment and video games, but now…

He rubbed his forehead. The washing machine stopped. He told himself to get up and put the duvet in the dryer. 

He didn’t get up. 

How much money would Peter be able to bring to the pack? The Hales had had a reputation for the upper side of “rich,” but he didn’t have a solid idea. Stiles tapped his fingers along the table as he considered digging up old bank records that he was sure were on the sheriff station’s servers. 

He wondered what Peter was planning to do once he was fully healed. 

Whether he planned to kill.

Who he was planning to kill. 

How high Stiles was on the list. 

Whether Isaac would have left by then or not. 

He hoped so. The death of three alphas in one lifetime wasn’t something Stiles wished on anyone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing against Jeremy Renner, but I DO think that "Man Starts Social Media Site Centered On Selling Access To Himself But Fails To Secure His Own ID On Said Site" is one of the funniest things that's happened in the last decade.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao I've rewritten the last part of this chapter 4 times? 5 maybe? Anyway I've done all I can, it's time to send this little bastard child out into the world.

Despite Harris’ best attempts to annoy the shit out of him, Stiles got through his morning classes and then booked it to the hospital the next day. He made it there in time to catch the end of the doctor’s discharge instructions. 

Today’s doctor was either not as prejudiced as her co-workers, or had a better poker face. In either case she simply angled her body to include Stiles in the conversation and spoke about the things he could do to help Peter’s recovery along. 

“Unfortunately there’s no way to know how long this will take,” she said. “You’ve made immense strides in the two days you’ve been awake, but there are too many factors to guess what will happen from here on out. I know my colleagues have recommended that you stay here, but as far as I can tell, nothing we did ever actually had an effect beyond the initial burns healing.” She shrugged. “Being closer to your alpha might be exactly what you need to completely heal.” 

Outwardly, Peter was calm and composed, more self-assured and good looking in shitty sweats than Stiles would have guessed possible. Their bond, however, was vibrating with impatience to get out of there. 

Once the doctor finished, there was just one nurse left to finish discharging Peter. This one refused to even look at Stiles. He just repeatedly told Peter that there were _many_ options for a lone beta, and that he didn’t _have_ to stay with any alpha, and that it was _important_ to watch for red flags-

Once again, Stiles kind of wished he’d actually done something to deserve this type of attitude. Possibly parking in the fire lane, or maybe jaywalking, or perhaps a touch of assault. 

Just a lil bit. 

After all, he wasn’t black-and-white _against_ any of those things. They all had circumstances under which they were the correct choice. Ethics are subjective to morals, and more relevantly the fire lane was _so much closer._

Peter wrinkled his nose at the Jeep, but didn’t say anything as they left the hospital parking lot. His eyes were glued to the window during the short ride through town. Stiles wondered what changes he was marking; what things were missing from his memory’s picture. 

Peter made it up the walkway and into the house just fine, but Stiles could see the dread in his eyes when he saw the stairs. 

“Come into the kitchen,” Stiles said, diverting them instead. “I’ll make you something less terrible than hospital food.” He led the way through the living room and gestured a hand at the kitchen chairs. Peter sat, and watched. 

“Anything you hate? Love?” Stiles asked as he looked through the fridge. 

Peter just shook his head. Stiles cocked an eyebrow at him. 

“You’ll probably want to come up with specifics eventually. Isaac is in charge of grocery shopping, and he tends to buy foods with ‘x-treme’ on the packaging. How do fajitas sound?” 

Peter’s mouth quirked up a bit as he said, “That sounds delicious.” The kitchen was quiet as Stiles cooked. It wasn’t until they both had plates in front of them that Peter spoke again. “You seem quite proficient in the kitchen. You have excellent knife skills.” 

Stiles took a beat to process that, and then had an out-of-body moment of wondering which episode of _Hannibal_ this was before answering. 

“My dad’s preferred method of cooking was takeout menus. After mom died, it was either learn to cook or find a way to live with grease in my veins instead of blood,” Stiles said before glancing up at Peter. “It doesn’t hurt to know how to handle a knife either.” 

Peter hummed thoughtfully as he took another bite. 

“Some wolves prefer to do their butchering with claws,” he said. “It feels more natural. Gives them more control.” 

“Control is gained with effort and practice,” Stiles responded, playing along with Peter’s dramatics for the moment. “If something feels out of control, that can always be fixed. Either by taking control of it yourself or giving control to someone you trust.” He looked straight at Peter and took a bite, chewing obnoxiously.

Peter stopped eating for a moment, looking back. 

“Which would you rather? Take it yourself or give it?”

Stiles shrugged, finding himself enjoying the conversation more than was probably healthy. 

“I didn’t get the chance for either. It was forced on me whether I wanted it or not.” He took a drink to give himself a moment before continuing. “But now that I have it, I can admit that it feels good. It feels like security. I understand why people go to extremes for it.” He paused. “Doesn’t mean I think it’s worth the extremes.”

Peter hummed. 

“It sounds as if you’re speaking of power, not control. They’re not the same thing.”

Stiles snorted. 

“They are for an eighteen year old alpha,” he said dryly. “Without the control, I don’t keep the power.”

Peter went quiet for a moment, taking another bite. 

“And what about how natural it is? To use claws instead of knives?” 

Stiles shrugged again. 

“I learned to use claws and knives at the same time. They’re the same to me.” 

“About that-“ 

_Oh, here we go_ , thought Stiles. _What he_ actually _wants to talk about._

“- when were you bitten? Did Claudia give you the bite?”

Stiles looked up, assessing the wolf in front of him just as intensely as he could feel himself being assessed. 

“How did you know my mother?” he asked bluntly instead of answering. 

“She works- she worked at the library,” Peter said, stumbling verbally before continuing in a bland voice. “I often went there for a quiet space to work outside of the pack house.” 

Stiles sat back, mind racing. 

“If you weren’t surprised to find out I’m her son, but were surprised to find out I’m a wolf- how _much_ time did you spend at the library?” he asked. 

“I knew her well enough to know she was married to another alpha,” Peter said smoothly. “It seemed unusual to me that two alphas would produce anything other than a wolf.” 

His heart didn’t skip, but a slight jump through their bond indicated something amiss. 

_How well had his mother known Peter?_

“You’re not stupid, Peter,” Stiles said shrewdly. “Weren’t you a lawyer before all this? You definitely passed high school biology. You know how Punnett squares work.” Stiles crossed his arms, waiting for a response. 

Peter’s face remained impassive. Ice formed and shattered in their bond. So, so sensitive. Nearly double as much as anything he felt with Isaac. Like a twice woven- 

“Holy shit, you were in her pack,” Stiles breathed out. 

Peter’s eyes widened. 

“You inherited her alpha spark,” Peter said slowly, with dawning realization. “You have hers _and_ your fathers.” 

They sat at the table, staring at each other, stunned at the twin revelations.

A slam of the front door broke their standoff. 

“STILES I GOT SUSPENDED,” Isaac yelled from the entryway. 

_“Oh my god,”_ Stiles whispered to himself, running a hand down his face. “We’ll talk about this later,” he hissed at Peter before getting up to head toward Isaac, calling out, “How long and what the fuck for?” 

* * *

So, Isaac had gotten into another fight. With the same beta. This time in the middle of his Spanish class. 

At least the other beta had been suspended too. 

Stiles had already planned to finally call the alpha that evening, so he just bumped up the call. 

One hand held his phone as it rang, and the fingers of his other drummed along the countertop. Isaac and Peter both sat at the kitchen table, Isaac looking a little sheepish but more defiant, and Peter looking torn between amusement and disbelief that one high schooler was handling the disciplinary phone call of another high schooler. 

“Johnson pack residence.” 

“This is Alpha Stilinski, calling to speak with Alpha Johnson about her beta-” Stiles looked over to Isaac, who mouthed _Logan_ , “-Logan.” 

There was a pause on the other end, the sound of muffled whispering, and then the voice came back to say, “One moment, please.” 

Stiles waited impatiently. 

Eventually, an old, crisp voice picked up. 

“Alpha Johnson speaking.” 

She had the kind of voice that Stiles could imagine saying _Tips are optional._

“Hello, this is Alpha Stilinski-” 

“Alpha Stilinski is dead,” Alpha Johnson interrupted bluntly. “Is this his pup I’m speaking to?”

Stiles stopped tapping his fingers, steeling himself. 

“This is Alpha Stilinski you are speaking to, _as I said._ Your beta Logan has been suspended for instigating fights with my beta, and mine has been suspended for participating in those fights. Isaac will be working on controlling his temper for the duration of his suspension. I’d like to know what you’re doing with Logan so that we can work together to ensure that this doesn’t happen again.” 

There was another pause on the other end of the line. 

“Logan was _instigating_ fights with your beta, you say? If you’re Alpha Stilinski’s pup, then you’re a child yourself. Why on earth would I ever believe that _your_ beta wasn’t the one starting fights, and my Logan just defending himself?” 

Stiles wanted to groan. He should have expected this. 

“Well, I don’t know why _you_ would believe it, but _I_ believe it because of the thirty eyewitness accounts from the class, including the teacher.”

“Clearly your beta is manipulative, if he’s been goading mine into a fight,” Alpha Johnson dismissed. “Who’s to say he didn’t just frame things to look that way? No, I trust my beta’s word over the beta of a teenage alpha, thank you.” 

And then she hung up. 

Stiles checked the screen to be sure, and- yep. Call ended. 

He could feel boredom down the bond from Isaac, and shock from Peter. Ignoring Peter for now, he looked up at Isaac. He drummed his fingers one more time. 

“Alright. New plan. Your suspension will be half TED talks on picking your battles, and by that I mean picking _fewer_ battles, and the other half will be training to kick Logan’s ass the next time he talks shit.” 

Isaac just shrugged and nodded in agreement. Stiles rubbed a tired hand over his head. This day had already lasted too long, and he still hadn’t sat down to work yet. 

“Isaac, please help Peter up to his room,” he said, before turning to look at Peter. “You’re staying in the master bedroom, so you have an en suite with a shower, but the towels are still kept in the linen closet in the other bathroom.” Peter looked at him intently for a moment before nodding, and the two betas left the room together. 

Stiles grabbed his laptop from a side table and finally got to work. 

* * *

Peter’s head spun as he lay it down on the pillow. 

The disrespect of the Johnson alpha was nothing short of appalling, and something that any other alpha would have immediately challenged.

And Stiles had done nothing. But he held such incredible power-

It made no sense.

Peter had always found more security in knowledge rather than power, but now he found himself in a dearth of either. 

Stiles was nothing like he’d expected- but then, neither had been Claudia. 

An eighteen year old who held the power of two alphas. 

Before today, he would have assumed that taking the alpha power in such a case would be a mercy. There were few fully adult wolves who could handle that kind of power without losing themselves, much less a teen. 

Yet Stiles seemed to be fully in control; of himself, if nothing else. 

Peter needed both knowledge and power. 

But... perhaps he would wait a bit longer to decide how he would get them. It wasn’t his first choice; even if the vicious need for revenge wasn’t coursing through him, Peter never did well with boredom. But he could feel the weight of his exhaustion pulling him down into the mattress. His healing was happening so rapidly now that killing Stiles immediately and taking the power for himself might actually slow it. 

Perhaps studying his pretty, inscrutable alpha would be a passable way to fill time. 

* * *

Over the next couple of days, Stiles could feel power flowing along his bond toward Peter as he slept, which was most of the time. Peter was rapidly healing, taking back what was stolen by the fire and Laura. 

Stiles wondered how things might have been different if his mom hadn’t died before the fire. 

Wondered if Peter’s connection to Claudia was enough to keep him from trying to kill Stiles for the alpha spark. 

The last day of Isaac’s suspension, Stiles came home from his classes to see Peter in the backyard with Isaac, teaching him how to throw off a grip. 

“No, not like- your attacker is never going to be made of play-doh, Isaac. You can’t expect me to just squish out of the way, you have to either use my weight against me or gain enough momentum to move me yourself.” 

Peter sounded exasperated; something Stiles could relate to when it came to teaching Isaac how to fight. So far Stiles had tried to teach him a few moves from the sheriff’s department self-defense class, but Isaac kept trying to turn it into a strength vs strength competition- something he was unlikely to win against Logan. 

Isaac saw him come into the backyard, and immediately stopped struggling. 

“Stiles! Stiles, tell Peter to go back to bed. I’m not gonna learn anything from a dude who’s been in a coma for the last six years,” he called out. “I don’t wanna accidentally hurt him!” 

Stiles could see Peter rolling his eyes behind Isaac. 

“Peter was the left hand of the Hale pack, Isaac. You’re not going to accidentally hurt him. But yeah, you can spar with me for a bit so Peter can have a break.” 

Peter narrowed his eyes. 

“It’s hardly tiring to hold back a teenage beta with no fighting skills,” he said, voice irritated. “Fighting _boredom_ is more difficult than fighting him.”

“I meant a break from trying to teach Isaac something, not from sparring with him,” Stiles answered, ignoring Isaac’s protest of _hey!_

The corner of Peter’s mouth twitched up and he released Isaac, going up to sit on the porch steps. Stiles watched Peter from the corner of his eye as he went to take his place with Isaac. The scars on his face were almost gone now, and his movement much more fluid, but he did wince a bit as his left knee bent on the stairs. 

Stiles turned his attention to Isaac. 

“Okay, what do you remember from last time?” 

Peter gave surprisingly helpful advice from the sidelines as they sparred- Stiles had kind of expected him to needle both of them. Instead, he used his place on the porch to point out when Isaac’s form was wrong in a way that Stiles couldn’t see. 

Things were going swimmingly with two teachers- Isaac even managed to throw Stiles off once- right up until Stiles tried to teach him an offensive move. 

“What? Why would you teach him _that?”_ Peter called from the porch, clearly rankled. “That move leaves his shoulder open.” 

Stiles looked over, dropping out of the position he had been showing Isaac. 

“He’s taller than either of us. His shoulder won’t be as vulnerable as yours or mine would be, and it’s a good opening move,” he explained. Judging by Peter’s frown, it wasn’t a very good explanation. 

“It’s not a _bad_ opening move, but it’s not a _great_ one. You should teach him a side lunge instead. I’ve had a lot of success ending fights before they started with that.” 

It was Stiles’ turn to be incredulous. 

“Of course you have, your shoulders are broad as hell. Isaac doesn’t have the bulk that you have, a side lunge won’t do anything but give his opponent access to his back.” 

“Not if he executes it properly,” Peter argued back. 

“Listen-” Stiles said, heated, but Isaac interrupted him. 

“Show me what you guys are talking about, and I’ll decide which one I want to learn,” he suggested, and then his eyes brightened. “Oh! Throwdown! Whoever pins the other gets to teach me the move they want!” 

Stiles looked at Peter, eyebrows raised. 

“I suppose I could be bothered,” Peter responded, rising from the porch and sauntering out into the yard. “After all, it’ll only take a few moments to prove that I’m right.”

“Awesome,” Isaac said with a grin. “Good luck beating the shit out of each other.” He skipped off to the porch, leaving Stiles and Peter behind, exasperated. 

Stiles held out a hand to Peter. 

“Clean fight?” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Okay then.” 

Peter attacked without further warning, and Stiles’ already extended hand grew safely blunted claws between one instant and the next. They reached Peter’s gut for the briefest moment before Peter twisted away. 

“See? See what I mean?” Stiles said, readying himself even as he chewed out Peter. “You got nowhere with that attack!”

Peter simply smirked and attacked again. 

Stiles ducked his shoulder and tossed Peter over it, twisting around just in time to see him roll to his feet and lunge again, a moment before Stiles could properly prepare. He felt Peter’s fully sharpened teeth nick his throat as he leaned out of the way, and his eyes narrowed as he watched Peter halt and pivot around again, expression sharp and utterly unrepentant. 

Stiles realized that they were not playing under the same rules. 

So he threw them out. 

He beckoned Peter forward for another attack, and he obliged with a forward rush, their arms and claws clashing, pointed tips threatening from both sides now. Peter bared his teeth in a snarl, the last of his fading scars only serving to highlight a kind of beautiful ferocity that Stiles couldn’t look away from. 

Peter took advantage of the distraction by trying to kick out his legs from underneath him, bringing their bodies together in a furious tangle of limbs that Stiles barely escaped. 

Frustrated with his own preoccupation, Stiles decided it was time to end the fight. 

His eyes flared red, capturing the smallest shifts in Peter’s weight, predicting Peter’s movements and cutting them off before he could follow through on them. A blocked kick, thwarted hit, dodged throw- 

Stiles saw it coming half a second before it happened; Peter’s left knee was unprotected. 

He didn’t hesitate.

Peter went down, left leg crumpling beneath his weight, and Stiles put claws to his jugular. Peter froze, panting and grimacing at the pain. They stared at each other silently for a moment, edged in violence and uncertainty. 

“Oh shit, that was fucked up!” 

They broke their locked stare to look at the porch, where Isaac was clapping and cheering. 

“Can you teach me everything you just did?” he asked, eager. 

Stiles finally retracted his claws and pressed his blunt fingertips under Peter’s ear instead. Peter fully slumped to the ground as black veins began to flow up Stiles’ arm. 

“Eventually, yes. But we’ll start with the move I wanted to show you earlier. Then Peter can show you a side lunge.” Stiles glanced down at him. “Tomorrow. Go inside and do some of the homework Mrs. Howard gave you to keep you from getting behind.” 

Isaac flipped him off, which Stiles sweetly returned, but went inside anyway. 

Stiles and Peter were silent for a moment. 

“You can stop now,” Peter said eventually. “It’s probably fine.” 

“Give me another minute,” Stiles said, shifting his focus from taking pain to giving Peter what he needed to heal. “You want to tell me what that little tantrum was about?” 

Peter gave him an offended look. 

“‘Tantrum’? Excuse me?” 

“What else am I going to think about my beta actually trying to rip my throat out?” Stiles asked idly, looking closely at Peter’s knee. 

“I wasn’t going to _actually_ rip it out,” Peter protested before pausing. “Probably.”

“‘Probably’,” Stiles repeated doubtfully. 

“Probably! I-” Peter sighed a bit. “I have no interest in following an alpha who cannot protect his pack.”

Stiles pursed his lips a bit before sighing himself. 

“And of course an eighteen year old alpha couldn’t possibly be able to protect you.” He wanted to sound dry and caustic, but his voice came out sounding tired and bored instead. 

“No,” Peter argued, sounding rankled. “It has nothing to do with your age, and everything to do with my last two alphas getting killed within a few days of each other.” 

Stiles jolted a bit. 

That was right. 

Peter had lived through two dead alphas as well.

He wasn’t sure when Peter had become Claudia’s beta, but there was little doubt that he’d been Talia’s beta before that. And when Claudia died, he must have automatically returned to Talia. 

Who had died in the fire a few days later. 

Two dead alphas. God, maybe Peter really did belong with them. 

“Are you going to try to kill me?” Stiles asked abruptly. 

Peter stilled under his hand. 

It wasn’t like Stiles actually expected a fully honest answer, but he thought that perhaps springing the question on him would give him extra insight through their twice-woven bond. 

“You know,” Peter said slowly, bending his left knee slightly. “I might not.” 

Stiles couldn’t sense any deception, and his heartbeat was steady. 

Peter sat up then, gently knocking Stiles’ hand away. He examined his knee more closely, as well as the complete lack of scars in the area. Then he looked at Stiles curiously. 

“It’s healed completely.”

“I know, duh,” Stiles said, slightly exasperated.

“My sister couldn’t do that,” Peter continued, eyes intense as he looked at Stiles. 

Stiles just shrugged, wondering what that had to do with him. 

“Okay.” 

He got up from the grass and shook out the muscles in his hand where they were cramping slightly from the focused transfer of power. He tried to stifle a yawn, unsuccessfully, and headed inside to get some work done. 

* * *

Healing his beta must have taken more out of him than he realized, because the next morning Stiles woke up to the clank of a mug next to his head on the kitchen table. He shot up, snarling, before he smelled the coffee inside the mug and immediately quieted, grabbing it with both hands. 

“You know, I think perhaps the reason you have so much control over your alpha power is because you’re feral in every other aspect of your life,” Peter mused, walking away from the table to whisk some eggs. 

Stiles ignored him and took a sip as he closed the laptop he’d fallen asleep on the night before.

“You didn’t add any sugar,” he complained.

“I graciously gave you coffee. How you desecrate it is your own business,” Peter countered. 

Stiles, too tired to even consider getting up, just drank it and watched Peter pour the eggs into a pan. 

“Where’s Isaac?” he wondered out loud. 

“Getting his car fixed,” Peter said. “I gave him some money.” 

Stiles felt awkward, even though it had been an explicit term of their agreement. 

“Thanks,” he said, artless and unsure. Peter just waved it away. 

“We’ll need to sit down and hash out which bills I’m responsible for, by the way.” 

Stiles just hummed a vague noise of agreement and sipped his coffee again. He sleepily admired Peter’s broad back as he folded chives and mushrooms into the eggs, and caught himself wondering what it would look like with some bite marks. _Artfully_ placed bite marks. Just a few here and there, like a canvas painted by a mouth-

Stiles coughed into his coffee, abruptly remembering how sensitive their bond was, and went back to sternly telling his brain to wake up. 

“You never said whether it was your mother or father who bit you,” Peter said, seemingly out of nowhere. 

The word “bite” caught him off-guard so soon after his wandering thoughts, and Stiles answered without thinking.

“My dad bit me right after my mom died.”

Peter’s hands paused for a moment before he continued. 

“Hm. Your mom always seemed fairly adamant that you not take the bite until you were older,” he pushed, eyes still on the eggs. 

“Mm-hm,” Stiles agreed, curious now. “Dad wanted to bite me as soon as I started school, but mom wanted it to be my decision. My _informed_ decision,” he amended. “Dad was always concerned with my… durability, I guess? He worried all the time about me getting hurt, and he saw the bite as a solution to that. Mom, on the other hand, I think looked at it as more of a cultural induction. They argued about it a lot.” 

Peter listened intently as he plated breakfast for both of them.

“And then your father bit you as soon as she died?” he said, prompting him to continue.

Stiles looked at him flatly. 

“Dude, if you think he had something to do with my mom’s death, let me just stop you right here. My dad was so utterly fucking destroyed by my mom’s death that he refused to use any of his alpha power after hers was added to his. For the first year he cried every time he came home from work, because he had nothing to distract him. In fact, the other reason he bit me was because it was the only way he could legally leave me at home while he did overnights at the station.” 

“Wha- he- that law was made with _packs_ in mind!” Peter said indignantly, giving Stiles his plate and then sitting with his own. “With the understanding that other pack members would be checking in-“ Peter shook his head, huffing with frustration. “Another time,” he cut himself off. 

Stiles pursed his lips, setting down his fork.

“Just tell me what you’re thinking, dude.” 

Peter set down his own fork and regarded Stiles sharply for a beat. 

“Do you remember anything suspicious about your mother’s death?” 

Stiles felt bewildered. 

“Suspicious? No, not really. Just… I don’t know, a normal amount of traumatic, for a given value of normal.”

Peter was silent for another moment, and then spoke. 

“The Church of the Divine Hunt was threatening her. I don’t know how, exactly. She stopped meeting me and wouldn’t tell me the details, because she didn’t want to put me in more danger by allowing them to connect us.” 

Stiles’ mouth fell open, stunned.

“Wh- but the Argent’s cult burned down _your_ house,” he protested. “My mom- it was a feral omega. It was just an accident.” 

“We were working together to break up the church and put the leaders put in prison,” he said quietly. “Claudia had been piecing together statements given by former members and other witnesses for years before I joined her.” He paused, his next words filled with bitterness. “We were so close. I don’t know where she was keeping the documents.”

A memory tugged at Stiles, something he couldn’t quite grasp- 

The rustle of paper and click of a familiar box, opened and closed by his mother’s hands. The box that sat on her dresser…

Stiles silently got up and left the kitchen, feeling dazed. Peter followed as he went into Peter’s room and straight to the closet. A moment later Stiles dragged out one of the cardboard boxes- the oldest one. 

He opened it. 

Porcelain shards remained scattered over the debri of a hastily packed away life. Stiles brushed them away, feeling detached from the situation because of how sure he was of what he was going to find. 

Peter watched over his shoulder as Stiles pulled out a cheap looking “#1 Mom!” jewelry box. Stiles opened it to find that the storage fittings had been removed, leaving a rectangular space perfect for folded letters and documents. 

Peter inhaled sharply as he recognized the first few papers. 

Financial statements mixed with photographs, and phone transcripts filled with Claudia’s trademark wit and tenacity. 

_“If we’re going to bring the cult down in any meaningful way, I need your statement. We're trying to build a unstoppable case here, not a Jenga tower that can be knocked over by whatever slime creature the Argents hire to defend themselves... What? No, not an actual slime creature, it's an insult, Jesus Christ-”_

_“The Argents have murdered dozens of wolves- entire packs, even.”_

_“The church may come for me, but my son is safe. They don’t attack human children- Yes I know he has two alpha sires, I was there for that part. That doesn’t make him any less human.”_

The actual recordings weren’t there. As they dug through the box, all they found were the transcriptions, and various outgoing correspondence dated over several years. The only incoming letters were unsigned with no return address; most threatening to kill Peter and John, and a few with threats to kidnap Stiles and raise him inside the cult. 

And finally, one last note in an unfamiliar script: _Meet me at the Beacon Ravine trailhead._

Stunned, Stiles sat on the floor. Still holding the letters, Peter joined him. 

“So, you and my mother were working together to break up the Argent cult,” Stiles said eventually, voice dull. “You became besties and joined her pack. But the Argents caught on and began to threaten her. She distanced herself from you because she thought it would keep you safe. They only kill wolves, so she refused to let my dad bite me, once again to keep me safe. But she didn’t stop, so they killed her, probably by luring her into the woods and then freeing a wolf they’d made feral, and then burned your pack. And then because my father no longer had anyone to argue against, he bit me and I was no longer an attractive kidnapee to the cult.” 

“... yes. That sounds like it.” Peter let the letters drop to his lap again, fists clenched. “None of this can be used to make a case. At best it’s supporting evidence.” Stiles could feel disbelief and desolation coursing through him. “It’s really gone. Wherever the evidence is, it died with her.” 

The silence lengthened between them as Stiles’ head pounded with the shapes of everything he'd learned, and the black holes formed by their outlines. Why had his mother started this? Had his father been involved at all? Where was the rest of the case she'd been building with Peter? 

So much of his life had been dictated by the choices of others that he hadn’t even known about.

Peter’s, too. 

Stiles felt bound, unable to move an inch between the need to destroy the Argents and the knowledge that doing so would put his pack in danger. 

He doubted Peter felt the same.

He gave a little nudge to the knee he'd healed the day before.

“Hm,” Peter said, voice heavy and distracted. 

“What are you going to do?” Stiles asked.

Peter thought for a moment. 

“I’m going to borrow your phone and order some things.”

That wasn’t what Stiles had meant, and they both knew it. But then, Stiles thought, he wasn’t sure either of them were prepared for whatever the actual answer might be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author does not endorse parking in the fire lane. 
> 
> She does endorse assault tho.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles knew it- had lived it again and again- but somehow the needs of life continuing amidst the consequences of trauma never stopped feeling jarring. Like stepping on a rake, only to turn around and realize you were in an entire field of rakes. His mom died, and he still had to wash his underwear. His dad died, and he still had to go buy light bulbs. He found out his mother had been murdered at the hands of an anti-werewolf extremist cult, and he still had to pay the flood insurance. 

He also needed to put out the recycling. There was a ton of cardboard in the garage. 

Peter had been getting a lot of packages. 

First to arrive were the clothes that he had ordered immediately after leaving the hospital. Stiles noticed that a part of Peter seemed to settle once he was dressed according to his tastes- not a huge difference, but enough that fresh confidence and closely fitted jeans caught Stiles’ attention. 

Maybe a bit of his admiration. 

Perhaps just a touch of his wayward thoughts. 

They were very nice jeans.

A new car also showed up in the driveway, a subtly flashy black sports car that had Stiles half incredulous and half turned on. Then again, that might also have had something to do with Peter leaning over the hood.

They were very, _very_ nice jeans.

A new laptop and new phone were the last to arrive, and as soon as Peter had those set up he was constantly attached to one or both of them. 

“I think I’m supposed to be encouraging moderation,” Stiles said one evening as he and Peter sat at the table, working. “You know, telling you you’ll stunt your social development or whatever.”

“I’m not Isaac, Stiles,” Peter said absently. “Any social development I’m capable of happened fifteen years ago and wasn’t worth the effort.”

“Hm. Maybe Talia should have gone to the alpha training class instead of me.” 

“You had to go to an alpha training class?” Peter asked without looking up. “What the hell is that?”

“Yeah,” Stiles confirmed, editing a final sentence before sending it and opening a second bid. This would be enough to cover the final bills for the month, as long as Peter paid for the water and garbage pickup. The relief of knowing that loosened him up enough to chatter as he typed. “It’s a class that apparently all alphas under twenty have to go to. It lasted three hours on a Saturday, and while I honestly believe it was made with the best intentions toward people who grew up with shitty alphas and have no idea what a good alpha is like- well, it went off the rails about halfway through.”

“Do tell,” Peter said, one corner of his mouth lifting up as he finally glanced up from his screen. 

Stiles leaned back, taking a moment to stretch his legs out under the table and bump up against Peter’s. 

“Well, first of all, I was the only person in the class, and the ‘class’ was actually a video played and stopped by a parole officer. It started off by talking about how to handle alpha strength, and telling us to be mindful of the control we can, but not necessarily _should,_ exert over betas. It also gave some advice on communicating with other alphas that would be useful if other alphas didn’t think I was a probable murderer-slash-inevitable future criminal.”

Peter raised his eyebrows in a _go on_ gesture. 

“Anyway, about halfway through it started saying things like ‘try taking your betas to a technology-free retreat for pack bonding time,’ as if A. a technology-free retreat is something I would ever want to do and B. is something I could ever afford. The video just got worse from there, and ended by saying that I should plan an ‘alphas night’ for local packs, to encourage networking. Again, something that might be useful _if_ local alphas didn’t assume I was going to steal their wallets.” 

Peter frowned a bit. 

“Maybe you _should_ steal their wallets,” he said, reading something on his screen. 

“If you’re going to encourage me to do crime, I feel like you should at least be invested in the conversation,” Stiles complained, finally getting up to stand behind Peter and look over his shoulder. “Stealing their wallets wouldn’t even be a _good_ crime; it would be a low payout with an obvious culprit. What are you doing over here?” 

“I’m finding Argent.” 

Stiles clenched his jaw at the mention of the name, and then forced himself to relax. The word _Argent_ had been pounding a repetitive beat in his head since they’d opened the box, unable to be forgotten, but also unable to be his focus amidst trying to pay the bills and going to school. 

“She’s in the ground at the prison cemetery,” he said flippantly after a moment, knowing that’s not who Peter was talking about.

“Not that- wait, she’s dead?” Peter asked, looking up sharply. 

“You didn’t know?” Stiles said, surprised. 

“I knew she was already in prison and out of my reach,” Peter pointed out. “I’m more concerned with the one who got away with it.”

“Oh. Well, she’s dead. Got stabbed with a toothbrush shiv over stolen shower time. Or at least that’s what the official report from the prison guards said.”

“How did you read-“ Peter shook his head. “Whatever. Not _that_ Argent. The one that’s still actively leading a cult.”

“Ah, _that_ Argent. The same one that the FBI hasn’t been able to pin down in the last six years.”

“I’m better than the FBI and restricted by far fewer morals,” Peter said, distractedly looking back at his screen.

“The FBI doesn’t have morals,” Stiles corrected, “they just have bosses with constituents. Where are you looking?”

“I’m trying to map other instances of fires like mine, but-” Peter blew out a frustrated breath. “I’m not finding what I’m looking for. The ones that have come up so far have too many discrepancies to be sure.”

“Well, yeah. Of course not,” Stiles reasoned. “Kate got caught a few days after the fire. Arson was _her_ M.O., not necessarily a method taught by the cult as a whole. That’s how they got away with throwing Kate at the courts and keeping the organization out of it.”

Stiles could feel riotous emotions burning across their bond, and he automatically reached out to run a soothing hand through Peter’s hair. He was already carding through it before it occurred to him that Peter might not like that. 

Peter slumped into his hands instead. 

“Claudia used to do this,” he murmured after a quiet moment.

Stiles warmed at the comment, recalling his own memories of his mother running her fingers through his hair as a child. He was so unused to hearing positive memories of his mom. Strangers only wanted to talk about her tragic death, and his dad had never wanted to speak about her at all. 

“Why did you decide to join her pack?” Stiles asked. 

Peter hesitated before answering, straightening up a bit. Stiles pulled his hands out from his hair so he could turn to face him. 

“My pack… had rigid expectations for me. Ones I didn’t always agree with.”

Stiles’ mind automatically went to his blue eyes. 

“Probably not the ones you’re thinking of, though,” Peter added wryly. “My place as the left hand protector of the pack never bothered me. Neither did their expectations that I would become a lawyer; I was very good at it,” he said, a shark-like smile gracing his face for a moment before faltering. “But I was good at other things as well. I was good with children, but never allowed to spend time with them. I was good at cooking, but never allowed to feed the pack. We all had our little slots to fill, and no one was allowed out of them.” 

“That’s stupid,” Stiles said bluntly. “No offense to them,” he hurried to add, remembering the whole _don’t speak ill of the dead_ thing. 

“No, you’re right,” Peter agreed, amused. “I wanted to be Claudia’s beta because she didn’t believe in traditional pack structure. She was married to another alpha; you really can’t get more non-traditional than that. As we got to know each other better, it became clear that she had a much looser idea of a beta’s responsibility. I wanted that. That’s why I joined her pack.” 

Stiles hummed thoughtfully, putting his hand back in Peter’s hair. He didn’t lean in this time, but he did close his eyes. 

“You know I’m the same way, right?” Stiles said after a few minutes of combing through the strands. “You can do whatever you want to support the pack. Or, you know, _not_ do whatever.” 

Peter’s mouth quirked up. 

“I know. You make quite the attractive alpha, Stiles.” He opened his eyes, giving him a considering look up and down. “ _Very_ attractive,” he added with a smirk.

Stiles couldn’t help rolling his eyes. 

“You’re really gonna shoot your shot right now? You were undecided about murdering me literally less than a week ago.” 

“Don’t act like that’s not part of the lure,” Peter countered, eyes crinkling a bit at the corners. “And don’t even consider acting like you’re not interested.” He raised an eyebrow. “Our bond goes both ways.”

Stiles hummed, amused. 

“No, I won’t pretend like I’m not interested, or like your cutthroat attitude isn’t attractive-”

Peter smiled triumphantly. 

“-but if you want to sleep with me, you’re going to have to put some effort into it. Wine and dine me, Peter.” He finally took a step back, returning to his chair. “You can start by making dinner tonight.” 

Stiles returned most of his attention to his work, but watched from the corner of his eye as Peter hesitated, looking at his own screen with indecision. After a moment, he closed his laptop and went into the kitchen. 

Stiles smiled at his screen. 

Moderation: Encouraged. 

Peter cooked up a quick stir fry, and Stiles found himself setting aside his work again just ten minutes later. 

“What is this, Thai?” he asked, sniffing the plate Peter offered to him. It smelled amazing. 

“Thai-ish,” Peter answered. “Ginger, cardamom, garlic, cilantro.” 

Stiles took a bite, and had to stop himself from immediately shoving another one in his mouth. Things were quiet for a bit after that as he enthusiastically ate, Peter watching with a slight upward bent to his mouth. 

“I can’t believe your pack didn’t want you to cook for them,” Stiles said eventually, once his plate was nearly empty. “Shit dude, I could eat that twice a week for the rest of my life.”

Peter preened silently. It made Stiles warm to see him proud, all the more significant for being a different kind of pride than he had exhibited when talking about his work as the left hand. It did bring his previous thoughts to mind though. 

“Can I ask-” Stiles started, hesitated, and then pushed forward. “When did your eyes turn blue?”

Peter silently set down his fork and steepled his fingers. He didn’t look guilty, or worried. Stiles could feel a slight tension in the bond, but nothing horrible. His curiosity burned a bit brighter. 

“The first time I saw them,” he said slowly, “was after waking in the hospital. But I expect they changed as soon as your mother was murdered.” 

Stiles’ heart broke. 

“Because as a left hand, you felt responsible for her protection?” he questioned quietly.

Peter nodded shortly. 

“Even if your mother hadn’t died, I expect my eyes would have turned blue after the fire regardless. It’s-” Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s inherent to my personality, Stiles. The desire to protect those important to me. I’m not a _nice_ person- nice people care about protecting others as well. I don’t. It’s why I made a good left hand, it’s why I was happy to take the role. Obviously it’s not the _only_ role I want, but it’s one that’s fulfilling to me.”

Stiles nodded, throat a bit tight. 

“It’s also why it’s so important to me that I do _something,”_ Peter’s hand clenched into a fist briefly before loosening. “I need some form of retribution for my packs.”

It wasn’t just important- Peter had been more accurate with the word “need.” Stiles could feel a devastating hunger for justice, mirrored in himself. 

“If mapping the fires isn’t going to work,” Peter continued, “I’ll have to try something else.”

“You could try tracking financial records,” Stiles suggested. “Checking for waived taxes or money laundering.”

Peter’s eyes brightened a bit, and he pushed his plate to the side, tugging his laptop closer again. Stiles got up to stand behind his shoulder again, adding his weirdly specific knowledge of European structuring and round-tripping as Peter clicked through the established movements of the cult’s factions from the last six years. 

Stiles startled when he caught a glimpse of the clock hours later. 

“What the _fuck,_ how is it already eleven?” he yelped, hurrying back to his own laptop. “I still have a bid to finish, Jesus _Christ.”_

Peter’s fingers stilled on his keyboard as Stiles’ began to fly over his own. He was silent for a moment before he finally spoke. 

“You know… I could probably take over the bills for the pack until you’ve graduated, Stiles,” he said slowly. 

A small part of Stiles instinctually bristled at that; at the idea that he couldn’t provide for his pack. The larger and infinitely more pragmatic part of himself was flinging the words _YES PLEASE_ at his tongue. 

Unfortunately, they were both shut down by the current state of California law. 

“You probably haven’t caught up on the last six years of legal news, have you?” he said. “Four years ago there was a big thing down in L.A.- an alpha kept bringing in betas with successful startups, essentially ordering them to give the money to the pack, and then forcing them to file for bankruptcy. It was a whole judicial thing, but the outcome was basically that an alpha must be responsible for no less than 50 percent of a pack’s financials, barring exceptional circumstances. It takes at least six months to file for an exemption.” Peter’s expression got more sour the longer Stiles spoke, so he was sure to finish off with, “It also takes at least a few months to set up a viable series of shells that could hide it, Peter.” 

Peter’s expression went belligerent for a moment, and then he sighed and pursed his lips. 

“Then I’m sorry I distracted you.” 

Stiles lifted a hand, ready to dismiss the apology, but Peter grabbed it, forcing Stiles to look at him. 

“I’ll focus on justice for the past; you focus on ensuring our future. Alright?” 

Peter squeezed his hand a bit as if in emphasis. 

Stiles could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t be horrifically embarrassing. Instead, he nodded, and Peter released his hand. They returned to their laptops, silently working together.

* * *

“FUCK YEAH!” 

Stiles sighed in the school hallway as he recognized Isaac’s yelling.

“LAHEY!” was the immediate, appalled follow up from inside the classroom.

Stiles had just gotten out of his last class, and passed by Isaac’s on his way to his car. Most of the students were walking out and into the hall, but Stiles poked his head into the classroom to see what was going on. 

The teacher was speaking to Isaac with her back to the door, and Isaac seemed to be having trouble suppressing a grin.

“I’m aware that your… circumstances haven’t left you with the best role model,” the teacher said, voice somewhere between stern and pitying.

Isaac glanced over the teacher’s shoulder at Stiles in the doorway, and his grin got even more obvious. 

“Yeah, it’s a real difficult situation, y’know. I’m very impressionable. My teen alpha is teaching me all kinds of bad habits.” 

The teacher clucked sympathetically as Stiles rolled his eyes and leaned up against the door jamb. 

“Well,” she continued, “I understand your excitement at doing so well on the test, but that doesn’t mean it’s acceptable to use such foul language, Mr. Lahey.”

“Yes, Mr. Lahey,” Stiles said, watching the teacher startle and turn around. “Please watch your language. Also, I apologize for teaching your young, impressionable mind such uncouth habits. Maybe next time, your teacher can take her issues directly to the source of the problem.” He smiled placidly. 

“Uh-” she began uncomfortably, but Isaac stepped around her, his grin turning into something more genuine. 

“Stiles, I got an A!” 

“Congratulations, man! Maybe you won’t have to sell your organs for a living after all,” Stiles said, his own genuine grin in place even when Isaac lightly punched his gut in retribution. “We should celebrate tonight!” 

“Ah-” the teacher tried again, taking a step toward them. 

“Yes?” Stiles said, twisting to face her with Isaac behind him. Her eyes darted back and forth, taking in the silently protective position. Her nostrils flared. 

When she continued to say nothing, Stiles prompted her with, “If you feel that his language is a serious enough problem, I’d love to set up a conference to speak with you one-on-one about it. In fact, if it truly bothers you, why don’t we invite the principal? I’m sure Mrs. Shannon wouldn’t mind setting aside thirty or forty minutes to talk about the moral well being of one of her students.”

Stiles watched her face as she processed the idea of calling in the principal to deal with a single curse from a single student. The double standard of Isaac’s alpha mentorship versus that of every other student seemed to sink in a little. Judging by the twist of her mouth, it didn’t taste good. 

“That won’t be necessary,” she said shortly. “Have a good day, Mr. Stilinski.” 

“It’s Alpha Stilinski, actually,” Stiles corrected. “Thank you for your time.” He and Isaac turned and left the classroom after that, Stiles muttering _Jesus fucking Christ_ under his breath. Isaac snorted. “I’m serious about celebrating, by the way,” Stiles added. “Anything in particular you want to do tonight?” 

Isaac shrugged. 

“I dunno. Surprise me.” 

He waved goodbye then, heading to his next class while Stiles turned toward the parking lot and went home. 

Peter was there when Stiles arrived, but putting on his coat to leave. 

“You headed out?” Stiles asked, pausing on his way to the coffee maker. 

Peter nodded. 

“I need to get a few documents from my old safety deposit box. I think I’ll go for a run too.” 

Stiles hadn’t gone for a shifted run since the last full moon, and they were already past the new moon. The longing must have been obvious on his face. 

“You’re welcome to come.” Peter’s face was an open invitation, but Stiles reluctantly shook his head. 

“I have to work. There are three bids waiting,” he said with a sigh. 

Peter frowned a little. 

“You’re really far too skilled to be doing this, you know. Your research skills and ability to quickly pick up relevant details are frankly incredible.” 

Stiles was half flattered and half exasperated. 

“I mean, thanks? I think so too, but it’s either this, or a part-time job with more consistent but less flexible hours, for less money. Or, you know, crime. And actually, technically what I’m doing isn’t illegal but it’s definitely not kosher.” 

“Hm. You should look into writing grants.” 

Stiles stared at him blankly for a moment. 

“Like… government grants? Don’t the people applying for them do that?” 

“Sometimes,” Peter allowed. “But organizations, like nonprofits, that apply for dozens of grants sometimes hire an in-house grant writer. Or people who know they’re shit at persuasive writing will hire freelance grant writers. The research aspect is similar to what you’re already doing, only with a slightly more manipulative bent.” 

“Huh. Research and lying,” Stiles said thoughtfully. 

“Not lying, seductive truth-telling,” Peter said pointedly, finally grabbing his keys. “Do I get a kiss goodbye?” he added with an over-the-top smoldering look.

“I only have room in my heart for coffee, dear,” Stiles said with a smirk, turning to walk to the kitchen. “By the way, Isaac got an A on his History test, so we’re celebrating tonight!” he called over his shoulder as Peter pouted and stuck his wallet in his pocket. “See you later!” 

He listened to the door shut, and the purr of Peter’s engine as it pulled out of the driveway, stirring sugar into his coffee and taking it to the table with his laptop. 

Curious about the grant thing Peter had been talking about, Stiles decided to take a few minutes to look into it. 

Four hours later he surfaced, with a completely revamped resume and a feverish thrill in his eyes. He startled when the front door closed and Peter walked in, holding a box and staring at him with a raised eyebrow. 

_“I’m going to be a grant writer.”_ Stiles’ voice was triumphant, and only slightly unhinged. “Peter, this is _incredible,_ why didn’t I know this was a job?! I’ve already submitted a portfolio to three different scientific nonprofits who need grants written. Two do bug things and one is about coral, and there’s another one I’m looking into for early sign language intervention for deaf kids- Peter, I don’t know if I’ve ever been so excited about anything in my entire _life.”_

Peter was smiling broadly by the time Stiles stopped talking. 

“You’ll be fantastic at it.” 

Stiles grinned proudly at his beta’s support before getting distracted by the box in his hands.

“What’s that?”

“Oh. You said we’re celebrating, so I thought I’d get something... fun. A woman with pink hair assured me this was the console to get.” 

“Oh shit, is that a Switch?” Stiles said, getting up to look more closely. 

“Yes, that’s it. I thought it would be nice, I suppose, for the pack.” 

Peter seemed uncharacteristically tense, and it took Stiles a moment to figure it out. 

“No rigid pack roles, remember Peter?” he said softly. “If you want to get something just because you think we’ll enjoy it, that’s fine. It’s amazing even.”

Peter relaxed, hesitated, and then tilted his head a bit to the side. Stiles happily rumbled and leaned in without hesitation to thoroughly scent mark him. 

“Come on, let’s go set this up,” he said once he leaned back, grabbing the box and hurrying into the living room.

Once Isaac got home, they settled on pizza and Super Smash Bros Ultimate, which coincided with a significant amount of teacher disapproved swearing. 

About halfway through the pizza, Isaac paused the game for a bite, talking around his food as he asked, “So are you guys taking a break from your super secret…” he waved a hand vaguely toward the kitchen table, “stuff?” 

Stiles hesitated before answering, which gave Peter the opportunity to disgustedly say, “Good _God,_ do you always talk with your mouth full? Were you raised in a barn?” 

“No,” Isaac answered, mouth still full of chewed up pizza. “I was raised in a locked freezer.”

Peter opened his mouth to retaliate, but Stiles cut him off. 

“It’s not a secret, Isaac. I’ve just been working on paying the bills. And Peter is working on putting together a court case against the Argents.” 

It wasn’t exactly a lie. Peter could, in fact, use the information he was digging up to bring a case against the church. 

Or he could use it to plan a few murders. 

Either/or. 

Stiles still wasn’t sure which one he was rooting for. 

In any case, Isaac accepted the answer with a shrug and went back to playing. Peter shot Stiles a sideways glance, which Stiles returned with a raised eyebrow. Gradually the pizza disappeared, and the games got sloppier between yawns, until the controllers slipped from their hands, one beta on either side of Stiles. He quietly turned off the TV. 

Isaac was dead asleep on his right side, Peter dozing on his left. Stiles tried to stifle another jaw-cracking yawn. 

He would wake everyone up and tell them to go to bed in a minute. 

* * *

Stiles felt _so_ comfortable. 

It was cozy and warm and quiet. There was a heavy blanket on top of him, and a soft, cushioned corner for him to snuggle into. He let out a contented ulittle sigh, ready to fall back asleep. 

“Don’t you have class in ten minutes? Isaac left half an hour ago.” 

Stiles’ eyes snapped open as he flew up off the couch and into Peter, who was leaning over him. Their collision barely slowed him down as he flew up the stairs to grab his backpack. 

“I’m gonna be late to biochem, _fuck_ ,” he spit out, repeating another _fuck_ with every step back down the stairs. Peter stood next to the front door, holding it open with one hand and holding out a thermos of coffee with the other. 

“You are literally my favorite person on the planet,” Stiles said fervently, grabbing the coffee and planting a brief but solid kiss on Peter’s surprised lips before tearing out of the driveway. 

The halls were already clear when he arrived. He grabbed his things from the passenger seat and flew through campus, continuing to whisper expletivesas he went. 

“Stilinski!” 

Stiles cringed, screeching to a halt to face the voice. 

Finstock stood there, hands on his hips, and Stiles relaxed a bit. 

“You got Isaac’s arm straightened out?” he barked.

“Yes, coach,” Stiles confirmed. “As long as he doesn’t get into another fight with Logan, he should be fine.”

Finstock hummed and rubbed his chin with a frown. 

“That’s good. Melissa said something about you getting another beta?” he said. 

Stiles’ eyebrows shot up. 

“You talk to Melissa?” 

“Of course I do,” Finstock answered dismissively. “Between the high school and hospital, we cover pretty much the whole town’s worth of gossip. We get coffee at least twice a week. Now tell me how it’s going with Peter?”

“Uh-”

“STILINSKI.” 

Stiles cringed again, harder this time at the recognition of Harris’ voice, but Finstock addressed him before Stiles could even turn around.

“Mind your business, _Adrian,”_ Finstock snapped, derision dripping from his tone. “I’m having a private chat with my student.”

“He’s not your student anymore,” Harris snapped back. 

“I wonder what it says about both of us that I managed to teach him everything he needs to know in half the time you apparently need? You shouldn’t leave your students alone, Adrian, you never know what they’ll get up to with the bunsen burners.” 

Harris’ face soured, but he also ducked back into his classroom to check on things. Finstock turned back to Stiles. 

“Anyway, I mostly just wanted to say you’re doing a good job with Isaac.”

Stiles leaned back a bit at the completely unexpected praise, but Finstock just continued. 

“Fights with that Johnson twerp aside, Isaac seems to be doing a lot better lately. Less tired, turning in a lot more homework. He’s catching up. You’re helping him, Stiles.”

Stiles’ throat was strangely tight. He nodded once, unwilling to speak because he was unsure of what would come out. 

“Good luck with Peter, though,” Finstock continued with a snort. “I went to high school with him. He’s a clever asshole. Kinda like you. A lot like you, actually,” Finstock added thoughtfully before shaking his head. “Don’t let him talk you into anything you don’t wanna do, alright? He’s mostly a good guy, but he can be very persuasive. The two of you have different things at stake. See you soon, Stilinski.” 

He turned around and left then, leaving Stiles puzzled as he slipped into Harris’ class. 

“Glad you saw fit to join us, Mr. Stilinski,” Harris said snidely. “Since you’re too smart for my class, perhaps you wouldn’t mind filling us in on the three main classes of lipids?” 

“Triglycerides, phospholipids, and sterols,” Stiles answered without bothering to look up as he set down his backpack and sat at his desk. 

Harris made a sound that might have been described as a harrumph by a kinder person, and went back to lecturing on lipids. He spent the rest of the class trying to catch Stiles out, but Stiles had studied for the exemption exam before Harris denied his request. He already knew everything that Harris had to offer. 

Which, of course, also made it a very boring class to be in. 

Discreetly, he pulled out his phone under his desk, only half caring whether or not he actually got caught. 

To Peter:  
 _thanks again 4 the coffee, and sorry 4 falling asleep on u apparently?_

To Stiles:  
 _The pleasure was all mine, dear._

To Peter:  
 _how do u do that. I literally just fell asleep on top of u and probably drooled. nothing about that is sexy. how do u manage 2 make literally anything into innuendo._

To Stiles:  
 _A lifetime of effort, darling. Did you make it to class on time?_

To Peter:  
 _lmao no. ran into finstock tho._

To Peter:  
 _he says he knew u in high school and that u were an asshole_

To Stiles:  
 _He’s only saying that because we knew each other in high school, and I was an asshole._

To Peter:  
 _“was”_

To Stiles:  
 _I’ll have you know that my personality is why I had such a successful career in law._

To Peter:  
 _yeah I bet ur lawyer friends at lawyer schoo_

Movement caught Stiles’ attention out of the corner of his eye before he’d finished the text. Red hair drifting out of a desk chair, toward a window. 

Lydia, a girl that Stiles used to have an enormous crush on, had a strangely blank expression as she moved. Harris continued to drone on, apparently assuming she was headed for the pencil sharpener. 

The hair on the back of Stiles’ neck stood up. 

The road was visible from the window she stood in front of, as well as the houses lining the opposite side of the street. Lydia seemed to be focused on them. Actually, on one in particular. She swayed a bit. Stiles caught a sudden whiff of decaying earth, and abruptly he knew exactly what was about to happen. 

Lydia screamed. 

Stiles jumped up and caught her before she hit the floor, laying her down as a flurry of panic swept through the classroom. She appeared to be breathing normally, just unconscious, so Stiles turned his attention to the house across the street. It looked completely peaceful from the outside, but he suspected the inside looked much more grim. 

“What is going on?” Harris demanded to know, fighting his way over through the students. 

Stiles ignored him as he pulled out his cellphone again and called 911. 

“Is she dead?!” Harris yelled, panicked. Stiles shook his head, exasperated but also unwilling to air Lydia’s secrets unless he had to. 

“911, what’s your emergency?” 

“Please send an ambulance to 951 Laurel Avenue,” Stiles answered. He saw some of the students glance across the street at the house in question, and one or two faces turn to shock as they put together the clues. He grimaced. He was unwilling to air Lydia’s secrets, but there was nothing he could do about people figuring it out on their own. Frightened whispers immediately began passing from student to student, the tone somewhere between superstition and plain prejudice. Stiles glanced down at her unconscious form. 

“Everyone out of the classroom,” he barked, his tone an absolute alpha order. Every wolf in the classroom immediately obeyed, and most of the humans began moving as well. 

“You are _not-”_ Harris began, heated, but Stiles interrupted him. 

“I don’t care. She doesn’t need to be crowded when she wakes up, and you don’t know how to handle this anyway, so get out.” 

Harris continued to try to argue, but Stiles ignored him until the students in the hall made enough of a commotion that he had to leave. Stiles breathed a sigh of relief, and then relaxed a little further when an ambulance arrived outside of 951. 

Lydia began to stir a beat later, slowly opening her eyes. 

“Wha- what-”

“You screamed,” Stiles said simply, watching her face as it drained of color. “Did you know already? Or was that the first time?” 

Lydia sat up, hands still shaking slightly even as she held her shoulders in a steady line. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she denied. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. She already knew, then. 

“Hey. You’re talking to a teenage alpha. Do you really think I’m not going to understand societal bias? _Me?_ ”

Lydia just looked away, back toward the window. 

The paramedics were rolling out a sheet covered form on a stretcher. 

Stiles sighed.

“I was just going to say that whatever you were doing to hide the banshee thing doesn’t matter anymore, because at least three people in this class figured it out, and they’re absolutely spreading it around right now.” 

He watched her jaw clench, and empathized with her resistance. 

“Look-” He stopped himself, rubbing a hand over his face and taking another moment to gather his words. “Do you have family around to talk to about this? It’s hereditary, isn’t it?”

She nodded jerkily, and then shook her head. 

“I mean, yes it is hereditary. My grandmother was a… but she’s dead.” 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said quietly. The bell rang, and they could hear an influx of movement in the hallway. 

“I have physics in five minutes,” Lydia said. She didn’t get up. Stiles sat there with her for another moment. 

“If you wanna talk…” he said, feeling awkward. “I’m just saying, I’m not a banshee, but like. People are dumbasses about odd shit. I get that. So if you wanna talk, I’ll… be here. Or there.” 

She looked at him with confusion, and honestly Stiles couldn’t blame her. He sighed.

“Sorry you couldn’t hide it anymore. Good luck, Lydia.”

And with that, he picked up his backpack and went to his next class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me @ stiles: on GOD we gonna get you a fuckin whole ass pack bro, on GOD


End file.
